


Opposite Field

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 00:52:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “Get to it, Ace,” Aomine says, outright grabbing Midorima’s ass again.





	Opposite Field

**Author's Note:**

> best baseball au aka baseball!aomido with younger!touou!mido (for ao/teikou!mido day 5/7)...this fic wouldn't be possible without val starting this whole au & contributing so many ideas gosh;;; thank you so much for the gift that keeps on giving...!

Cancer is ranked fourth today. Midorima reminds himself of that fact as he brushes his bare fingers on the corner of the plastic bag from last night’s convenience store run where it sticks out of his schoolbag. He has his lucky item; Cancer is ranked highly; there’s no reason to worry about today, and yet he has a feeling that something unexpected will happen. It’s stupid; there’s no reason for this. He’s not Momoi, reliant on inherent powers of intuition; he prepares for things. A surprise is, of course, something one is not prepared for, but he’s done his best to calculate the odds and prepare himself for the things he can control. Perhaps this feeling wouldn’t be as ominous if there wasn’t a game today (or if he wasn’t pitching, at least), and perhaps he’s just searching for something to worry about because things are going well.

Aomine catches him before he heads out onto the field for warmups, pulling him back into the opening of the busted side door to the clubhouse, hiding them from anyone who isn’t intentionally seeking it out. He pauses before kissing Midorima, poised on tiptoes, and then lets himself back down.

“Everything okay?” says Aomine.

He peers up into Midorima’s face, forehead wrinkling. Midorima nods.

“I’m just thinking. About Oha-Asa.”

“Didn’t Cancer rank pretty highly?” says Aomine.

“Fourth,” says Midorima.

Aomine hums, and then pulls Midorima down into another kiss.

“Don’t worry about it, Babe. Just go out there and do your thing.”

Midorima nods (though there’s no other option).

“Warm me up?” he says, as Aomine’s about to turn away.

“Course,” says Aomine. “Always.”

They’re just getting into long tosses when their first-year second baseman, Yamaguchi, comes running up to Aomine, a sort of wild panic about him. Dread rolls across Midorima like thunder from beyond the outfield. Is this it, the thing he’d been thinking of? Is the game called off? Is it something personal for Aomine? Midorima can’t hear them from this far away, and even with his glasses he can’t really see. But less than a minute later, Aomine’s jogging over, Yamaguchi trailing behind.

“Honda fucked up his ankle; they think he sprained it.”

That’s not good in any situation, especially not when Honda’s supposed to be catching Midorima today after Kawasaki’s caught the last six games in a row (and yesterday’s had gone into extras). Midorima exhales; if this is the surprise he’s been thinking of it’s a bad one, but he doubts they’ll have sent anyone over to Aomine with no idea of a backup.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’ll catch,” says Aomine, as if that’s completely settled (Midorima’s fairly certain it’s not judging from the look on Yamaguchi’s face).

Isn’t it the obvious solution, though? It’s hard to think of anyone on this team who Midorima trusts enough to get in the same conversation with Aomine, even if they’re strictly speaking on baseball terms. They’ve caught each other’s pitches way too many times to count, and even if Aomine’s not well-versed on the signs he knows how to catch everything Midorima can throw.

“Um?” says Yamaguchi. “Is that…?”

Midorima nods. “Please.”

(It’s more to Aomine, really.)

“Go tell Satsuki!” Aomine calls as Yamaguchi scurries off (no doubt she’ll approve).

He turns back to Midorima, fussing with the loose threads on his glove. “Sorry. I should have asked first.”

“It’s fine,” says Midorima. “I’m glad you want to.”

“I’d never turn it down,” says Aomine, thumping Midorima’s chest with his glove.

“Shouldn’t you swap that out?” Midorima says, trying to ignore the way his face heats up at Aomine’s words.

“I’ll do it when you start pitching,” he says (Aomine’s so attached to that stupid worn-out glove, and even though Midorima’s never been shy about suggesting he gets a new one he sometimes—and he’ll never admit to Aomine—finds it cute).

And then he slaps Midorima’s ass, completely unprompted (though possibly passing for platonic) and jogs backward toward the distance he’d been before, watching Midorima’s face the whole way.

“What was that for?”

“I’m practicing for our conferences on the mound.”

Midorima rolls his eyes.

He completes all of his pregame rituals while Seihou’s still warming up; there’s something to be said for their uniformity and cohesion. It’s not that his teammates don’t care about each other and won’t put the team above themselves when push comes to shove, and it’s not that he feels alone here. It’s just—different, focused on bringing out the best in each individual and letting that speak for itself rather than uniting everyone around a shared core. Midorima’s always wondered what it would be like, though, to have that sort of unity, and he’s never sure if it’s good or bad. It can be intimidating in its own way, a set of links that are all about the same in strength, functioning almost interchangeably, but he likes Touou the way it is, the tautology of strength in strength.

He’s disrupted from his thoughts when Aomine sits down next to him in the dugout, done with his captain’s duties for the moment. He’s got shin guards on and his catcher’s mitt tucked under his arm but no chest protector or mask, only the ever-present backwards cap, and the top two buttons on his jersey are still unfastened.

“Hey,” says Aomine.

“Hey,” says Midorima.

A slight breeze spins through the dugout; this early in the season it’s not that hot yet, and Aomine shivers.

“Button your jersey,” says Midorima.

Aomine crosses his arms over his chest; Midorima sighs and reaches over, buttoning him up. The black neckline looks good against his collarbones, proper and with no risk of a uniform violation. Perhaps he should have taken off his batting glove to do this, but then they’d get all caught up in touching each other again and they need to go over signs. Aomine watches Midorima’s gloved hand retreat, watches him place it in his lap on top of his glove.

“So,” Midorima says. “Signs.”

“One for fast, two for change, three for curveball, four for sinker?” says Aomine.

Midorima shakes his head. “One for change, two for fast, three for sinker, four for curveball, one and then two for pitchout, two and then three and then the number of the pitch if there’s a runner on.”

Aomine blinks. “Let me see—change, fast, curve—”

“Sinker,” Midorima says.

Aomine’s demonstrating by flashing the fingers against his thigh; he looks up with a certain look on his face.

“Show me?”

Midorima places his bare right hand next to Aomine’s, folding his thumb and fifth finger under his palm.

“Sinker.” He extends his fifth finger. “Curve.”

“Three is sinker; four is curve,” Aomine repeats. “Got it.”

Midorima can feel Aomine’s breath against his cheek; he tries to slow his heart rate back down to normal. Another gust of wind comes through the dugout; Midorima shifts closer to Aomine, trying to feed off some of his body heat.

“I can get your hoodie,” says Aomine.

“This is fine,” says Midorima.

He goes through the signs once more, leaning his head closer to Aomine’s shoulder, and they stay close until Aomine gets called back out to deal with the lineup cards. When they’re finally heading out onto the field for the first inning, Aomine slaps him on the ass, and before he pulls his helmet down leans in.

“You’ll do great. Knock ’em dead.”

Midorima fully intends to.

Seihou’s first batter is Tsugawa, playing shortstop today. He crowds the plate, shortens his swing, and crouches in the box to make his strike zone smaller, and he can still hit the ball well from that position. Still, Midorima likes an early challenge. Aomine puts down one; a first-pitch changeup is exactly where Midorima wants. He nods, then comes set, winding up in the same usual motion, moving all of the force in his body to releasing the ball at just the right point in the air. Tsugawa’s patient enough to wait on it, but he swings under the ball and it lands in Aomine’s mitt.

Midorima waits for the return throw, but Aomine calls time as the second batter steps up. Instead of adjusting his gear or switching out the ball, he gets up, takes off his mask, and walks out to the mound. Is he serious? He can’t have forgotten the signs.

“Good strikeout,” says Aomine.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yeah,” says Aomine.

“Daiki,” says Shintarou. “You can’t come up after every at-bat. You’re wasting time. Please take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously. I want to make sure we’re still on the same page.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“That’s all I need to hear,” says Aomine (he is impossible).

Before he puts his mask back on, he grabs Midorima’s ass almost egregiously (definitely not the way catchers are supposed to do that). But despite any indignation—over that, over Aomine interrupting his rhythm before he could get into it—Midorima feels, somehow, a little more at ease.

A bloop single and a double play and the first half’s over. Touou doesn’t do anything with their at-bats, but at this stage Midorima’s more concerned with finding his pitching rhythm. It’s not quite there yet; he hasn’t settled himself into a pace—it’s got nothing to do with Aomine as his catcher, though; that much is certain. Aomine’s calling the right pitches, setting up in the right places, and every time Midorima meets his eyes he feels a little bit calmer. He’s not making mistakes, though, not until he thinks he isn’t and promptly leaves a curve hanging on a one-two count to Seihou’s third baseman, Ayase. He can see it moving in; Ayase’s not expecting it but he reacts quickly enough to get the bat on it and lace it into deep left-center. It should be a single, but Ayase’s quick and aggressive; the outfielders are playing it too casually and he slides into second with a double. An error and a sacrifice later, Ayase’s scored the first run of the game and there’s only one out (at least Seihou doesn’t have anyone still on base). Aomine looks ready to come up to the mound and talk, but Midorima stares in at him, daring him to do it. He doesn’t want to talk; he wants to get the outs. Aomine acquiesces, dropping back down to his knees and setting up, calling for a fastball. Two pitches later, he’s out on a weak grounder straight back to Midorima.

They’re down to eighth in Seihou’s order, still as much a threat as any of them, but Midorima feels himself relaxing into the familiar pace of out followed by out. He throws the first two pitches for a foul and then a swinging strike; Aomine sets up low and a little outside for the next one, a curve, and Midorima winds up. The pitch nudges the corner; Aomine frames it higher than it was but the batter doesn’t chase and the umpire doesn’t give them the call. Aomine calls for a changeup next, and Midorima frowns. He wants to try another curve, move it over just a little but enough to get the call—but a changeup makes enough sense that he stares in and finally nods. Again, the bat doesn’t come off of the batter shoulder, but this time the ball’s well within the strike zone. The umpire punches the out as the pitch lands in Aomine’s mitt with exactly the right sound, and Midorima lets himself smile just a bit (as expected, but he won’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy it all the same).

The temperature’s still bearable, but it’s getting more humid and Midorima’s already sweating through his undershirt. He’d like that run back, and it irks him that he’s messed up, but he can’t go back and undo it. He’s trying to push it all out of his mind and watch the Seihou pitcher, Matsuda, analyze him better for his next at-bat when Aomine comes up and tries to wipe his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of Midorima’s jersey.

“We have towels,” says Midorima.

“Maybe my sweat’s lucky,” says Aomine.

Midorima ignores him. Aomine nudges Midorima’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

“I’m not going to fall apart just because I gave up one run,” says Midorima. “You’ve seen me pitch before.”

“I know, I know,” says Aomine. “Just.”

Midorima knows it’s the way he shows he cares, and he’s glad and grateful but it’s the second inning. They have time to get back eight runs of their own (not that that’s likely to be necessary, but Midorima holds that there’s really no such thing as an insurance run or a safe lead).

“You can lean on me if you need to,” Aomine says.

“I know,” says Midorima. “Thank you.”

They don’t score that inning, and with one out Midorima gives up a bloop single to Tsugawa. It shouldn’t matter outside of the stat line, but Tsugawa is a pest on the basepaths. Midorima can recall all too vividly watching him taunt Kise back in middle school, distract him enough to throw a wild pitch or attempt to pick Tsugawa off but send the ball flying deep into right field. But no matter his peskiness. He’s not fast enough to try and run on Aomine’s arm, especially not when Seihou’s got such a slim lead.

Midorima glances over to first; Tsugawa’s dancing off the bag. He could throw, but that would be a waste; he’s not getting Tsugawa now and he’s not going to let him win. But it still irks him, pricking the back of his neck, as if Tsugawa’s trying to play him for a fool—but that, more than anything, is what Tsugawa wants, and Midorima’s not going to fall for it. He toes the rubber and looks in for a sign. Aomine calls for a fastball, and Midorima nods and sets. The pitch comes in sharp, not at all what the batter’s expecting; he’s caught flat-footed and Aomine grabs the ball out of the air, firing down to first before the umpire even calls the strike.

Tsugawa dives back in headfirst to avoid the tag. Aomine’s pulled off his mask, and he’s glaring down the line. Is Tsugawa really bothering him that much? Should Aomine really let Tsugawa know he’s gotten to him? Midorima waits for Aomine to get down behind the plate, glancing over at Tsugawa again. He looks happy, as if he’s already won—and, while Midorima likes a decent double play, he’s already sick of this. He doesn’t need any distractions, and neither does Aomine. Midorima waits for the signal, draws himself up almost into position, and then he pivots, throwing right to first without hesitation. The ball’s left his hand before Tsugawa realizes; he knows he’s probably too late by the time he goes down and his hand’s still several centimeters from the bag when the first baseman swipes his glove across Tsugawa’s helmet.

The game settles into a pace after that, either Seihou’s stopped pushing as hard or (more likely) it’s just stopped getting to Midorima. Aomine’s throwing down the signs as if he’s always known them; it’s easy to stay on the same page as him. By the time the top of the sixth rolls around, they’re still down one-zip but the lead feels within reach, one more out until the heart of Touou’s order is up to bat again.

They’ve got two strikes on Ayase when Aomine calls for the sinker. Midorima squints and shakes his head. A fastball would be much more appropriate here, not usually his out pitch but after he's thrown the first three off-speed it's enough to make him swing too late or too early or catch the wrong part of the ball. Aomine calls for the sinker again; Midorima shakes his head harder. Aomine pulls up his mask and jogs out to the mound.

“Hey,” he says.

“What’s wrong with the fastball?” says Midorima (right out of his mouth it sounds confrontational, but that’s sort of how it feels).

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” says Aomine. “But I think he’s expecting a fastball. You’ve only thrown him off-speed stuff; you’re saving it.”

“Even if he knows it’s coming—”

“He’s a good fastball hitter,” says Aomine.

“I read the scouting report, too,” says Midorima. “I got him out with the fastball last time.”

He stares at the ball in his hand, adjusting his grip.

Aomine taps him on the thigh. “Shintarou.”

Midorima looks back at him, the honesty deep in his eyes, concern written on his face.

“Trust me on this?”

Midorima nods, slowly. Aomine has a point; his own pride and desire to get Ayase out on the pitch he’s best at hitting shouldn’t get in the way of keeping Seihou’s lead as tight as it can be right now.

The home plate umpire begins to walk out to the mound to break up the discussion; Aomine raises a hand to his mask.

“Just—consider it, okay?”

Midorima nods. Aomine yanks his mask down over his face, slaps Midorima’s ass, and jogs back behind the plate, crouching down. Again, he calls for the sinker; this time Midorima nods. He trusts. He comes set and delivers, every motion in exact rhythm. The ball comes off his hand right, headed seemingly up, like it’s drifting away from where Aomine’s set himself up, and there it goes, diving down, rolling away from Ayase’s bat as he swings, and straight into Aomine’s mitt. Strike three.

Midorima’s expecting to be more surprised than he is that it’s worked; he’s really not surprised at all. The discomfort at the situation that comes rising back into him as he sits down in the dugout is odd, perhaps more unexpected than the lack of surprise. He doesn’t have very long to sort out his feelings; Aomine plops down beside Midorima, placing his mask and glove on the other side. He stretches his arms out like he’s going to yawn and then drops one around Midorima’s shoulders, not subtly at all (though they do have the excuse, flimsy as a one-run lead in the first, of discussing strategy low enough that no one can steal the signs).

“Hey,” says Aomine. “Is everything okay?”

Midorima nods, slowly (if it’s not, it’s hard to say how). Aomine pats his knee.

“I hope you know I wasn’t trying to undermine your decisions or force this on you. I trust your judgement. But…”

He rubs his nose, trying to turn his thoughts into words, but Midorima gets it.

“We’re both pretty stubborn.”

“Yeah,” says Aomine, smile reaching every corner of his face. “But don’t give in unless I’m right.”

Midorima snorts. But underneath this bravado, Aomine’s still looking for something.

“I trust you,” says Midorima. “Even if you’d been wrong, that wouldn’t affect it, you know.”

Aomine squeezes his shoulder, smile brightening all over again. Part of Midorima wishes Aomine would kiss him right then and there, baseball be damned—but they’ve got two outs already (and, well, Midorima would really like to win this one). He gets his stupid wish, though (sort of), when Morimura goes down swinging, and Aomine leans in as if to whisper something, lips brushing Midorima’s jaw as if by mistake.

“We changing up the signs?” he says.

“No,” says Midorima, as his face heats up.

He can see that stupid cocky grin on Aomine’s face as he puts his mask back on and almost has to look away.

“Get to it, Ace,” Aomine says, outright grabbing Midorima’s ass again.

It takes Midorima five pitches to do away with the side, two groundouts and a shallow fly that almost gets lost in the left field sun but lands perfectly in the left fielder’s glove.

The bottom of the seventh starts with a groundout, another decent at-bat from Touou wasted and appearing not to have tired out Matsuda at all. His pitch count has to be climbing pretty high; he can’t sustain this forever. Midorima absently traces a pattern on the weave of his glove; he’ll get up this inning or next and there’s no excuse for not getting an RBI (if he has to hit himself in, well, that’s the most efficient).

Harasawa puts in Kurosaki to pinch hit next, and his at-bat appears to go as the first, two straight balls and then a strike on the inside corner that he’s taking all the way. The next pitch comes; Midorima leans forward on the dugout railing; it’s a change and that’s exactly what Kurosaki’s looking for. He smacks the bat right on the nose. It’s headed deep to left; he can hear the kids on the bench behind him clamor to their feet but he knows from the sight of it that it’s not out.

It lands in left-center, beyond the reach of both Seihou outfielders going for it; Kurosaki’s barreling toward second and by the time the center fielder gets the ball back in he’s safe with a standing double. They haven’t had a runner in scoring position since the third; and there’s only one out.

The Seihou catcher goes out for a quick conference on the mound and then gets back behind the plate, settling up for an intentional walk. It’s unusual to do for the nine-hitter, but in this situation it makes a bit of sense from Seihou’s end. Sakurai’s up next, 0-for-3, and if they can take advantage of his hot head and how insulted he feels they’ll get the double play and be out of it, easy. Then again, as Yamaguchi jogs down the line to first, it might work out in Touou’s favor. Sakurai’s no fool; he’ll know they’re trying to play him—though he might not care and swing for the fences anyway. Midorima frowns and leans forward again.

Beside him, Aomine steps down; he’s on deck now.

“I’ll knock them all in for you,” he says, grabbing a helmet, and a smile tugs at Midorima’s face.

(He’s not going to let Aomine show him up at the plate, but he’d love to have to rise to that challenge in the first place, see a sweet line drive off of Aomine’s bat and into the outfield.)

The first pitch to Sakurai is outside; Sakurai’s glaring right back to the mound and his swing’s so quick Midorima almost thinks he’s going to do it up until the ball crosses the plate. The next one is similarly off; they’re trying to make him give up and chase the bad ones, but Sakurai’s not biting. The third is a fastball, lower than Sakurai likes but still a strike; he doesn’t swing at that one, as if he’s daring Matsuda to give him something better. The fourth pitch is inside, almost a brushback; Sakurai responds by crowding the plate, and the next pitch is down in the dirt (a sloppy mistake, the kind of thing that happens this late in the game but for which there’s no margin of error). The bases are loaded for Aomine, and Midorima grabs a helmet, making his way to the on-deck circle.

Aomine’s stance is relaxed, betraying none of the tension he releases in every swing. The first pitch comes in a little high but gets called a strike anyway; Aomine tosses a look to the umpire but no more. Midorima runs his hands up and down the grip of the bat. The next pitch is a change; Midorima knows he’s going to swing before he even starts in, body propelling the bat forward to hit the ball right on the sweet spot.

It’s the hardest contact Midorima’s heard all game; this ball is going places. Seihou’s right fielder is shifted over and he gets a late break on it but they all know it’s too late. As soon as it’s clear the ball’s not getting caught, Kurosaki’s digging for home. Yamaguchi’s right on his heels, and Midorima’s pretty sure that even if Momoi was holding up a stop sign at third Sakurai would blow right through it. Aomine shows no intention of stopping at second; the Seihou right fielder picks up the ball and takes a perfect crow’s hop, hurling the ball toward third—and that ingrained mechanic may have bought Aomine enough time to get in. The ball’s coming in hard, but it’s going to bounce, and instead of sliding the way he absolutely knows how to, Aomine dives in headfirst. His bare hand slaps the bag, gripping it tightly as the tag comes late across his back.

Momoi calls time and Aomine stands up; he’s grinning and the front of his uniform is covered in so much dirt that Midorima can barely see the logo on his jersey. Midorima almost rolls his eyes, but that was a nice hit, extra theatrics or no. He steps up to the plate. Matsuda’s drenched in sweat; Midorima doesn’t envy him right now. He doesn’t pity him, either; the game is still going and runs are precious. Midorima looks at Momoi for the sign at third

The first pitch comes in flat, a cutter with no bite or a fastball with no gas; Midorima sends it into left for a single, no more with the outfielders playing as deep as they are. Either way it gets the run in; Aomine points at Midorima from home plate before he goes into the dugout and this time Midorima does roll his eyes.

The Seihou catcher goes out to talk to his pitcher, and whatever he says seems to work; the next batter grounds into an easy double play to end the inning. Midorima has barely a second in the dugout to switch out his equipment before he’s due back on the mound. The pitches are rolling off his fingers just right, as if he’d had no long break in the dugout or on the basepaths. Aomine calls for a first-pitch curve, and Midorima deals; the batter’s expecting it but he lifts it to shallow center for the out. The Seihou coach signals a pinch-hitter; instead of their right fielder in the nine spot it’s their shorter, stockier utility player, Kageyama. His stance is loose; he looks ready. Aomine calls for a fastball; Midorima deals.

It feels not-great on release; it’s headed toward the strike zone but too flat, and Kageyama meets it right on the nose. He doesn’t have much power, but he doesn’t need much to send it into the gap and hustle to first with a single. Midorima adjusts his cap and waits for the return throw. It’s just one pitch, not an at bat he’d had to grind through with a dull blade. He glances over to first; Kageyama doesn’t have much of a lead. As Midorima recalls, he’s not particularly fast, but he’s smart. Down by three with only one out, he might seize the chance to start a rally for Seihou. He’s not playing it like he’s trying to distract Midorima, rather the opposite, and that’s what makes Midorima almost certain he’s going to go. There’s no use throwing over. Aomine calls for the curve again; Midorima shakes him off. They don’t have time for off-speed; a fraction of a second is too much wiggle room. Aomine puts down one finger, then three, and Midorima nods.

Aomine sets up outside and Midorima sets up, pushing his arm against the air—behind him, someone shouts; Tsugawa takes the pitch and Aomine’s already almost down to his knees and ready to throw before the ball lands in his glove. Midorima steps to the side of the mound and watches the ball go by him, admiring the perfect line of the trajectory as it flies straight to Sakurai. Kageyama slides; Sakurai tags him before he hits the bag.

Seihou’s rally dies before it starts, four more pitches to finish the strikeout and Touou’s up again. They don’t score, but the lead as it stands is enough to keep Midorima in the right mindset to work a strikeout and a flyout when he goes back out for the ninth. Ayase’s up again third; he shows bunt right away and doesn’t pull back. The ball dribbles down the line and Midorima’s off to first; it’s Aomine who fields it and his throw lands in Midorima’s glove with a sweet smack as Midorima’s foot taps the base to end the game.

The tiredness begins to set in as it always does when Midorima reaches the locker room, the musty atmosphere and chatter around him sending him into a familiar lull. He undoes his belt and untucks his jersey, pulling it over his head without bothering to fuss with the buttons, folding it, and placing it in his bag. Now that he can see how sweaty his undershirt is, stuck to his body like some form-fitting haute couture, he can feel the accumulation of grime and wetness against his skin even more. Midorima wrinkles his nose. He’d love to hit the showers right away, but the infielders have already raced in (typical) and he needs to ice his arm, anyway.

He busies himself with the familiar ritual in the locker room’s side office (it’s really barely more than a closet), pulling the ice out of the small freezer and wrapping it around his left arm. He sits down on the table, trying not to think about how dirty it is, and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes and savoring the fresh memory of the smack of the ball against Aomine’s mitt. He replays it in his head again and again, and the more he thinks about it the more the leftover adrenaline surges, buzzing in his mind, pushing out the calm exhaustion. The game had been far from perfect, but the result is inarguable. Oha-Asa had been correct, as always; even the unexpected things had worked out and he’d had no need to worry.

The door creaks open; Aomine pokes his head open and then steps inside, a little more than a meter in front of Midorima. It’s a nice view; Midorima’s too tired not to drink him in even with the door half-open, backwards cap jammed on his head and his jersey half-open. He’s wearing only compression shorts and socks with his flip-flops; the ensemble is certainly something (appealing, but ridiculous, and Midorima would say he doesn’t want to let Aomine know but they’ve passed that threshold a while ago). Aomine’s grin is giddy, as if he’s drunk on the same champagne of post-game adrenaline as Midorima, but it softens as he shoves the door shut behind him and crosses the short distance between them, shoes slapping the ground.

“Congrats on the W,” he says, as if he wasn’t a part of it at all. “You were absolutely brilliant, you know?”

He hops up onto the table next to Midorima, bumping his hip. Midorima leans in, but waits for Aomine to close the gap and kiss him softly. Aomine’s arm snakes around his waist; his fingers slip under Midorima’s open belt and the waistband of his pants. He squeezes what of Midorima’s ass he can grab, and while Midorima’s fond of swatting him away and making him pout (he’s supposed to be resting, at least until his arm’s free) he’s also tired and it feels so damn nice.

“How are you doing? Arm okay?”

Midorima places his right hand on Aomine’s knee, almost pulling back when he brushes the tender skin on the side and Aomine twitches. That’s right where the elastic on the shin guard would have been digging in through the fabric of his pants and socks all game.

“The same as usual.” (Sore, it’ll be more sore tomorrow, but it’s mostly that his body’s still getting reacclimated to throwing so much; by the middle of May this kind of start will be next to nothing). “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” says Aomine. “Better now that you’re touching me, though.”

Midorima snorts, but the same is probably true for him.

“Thank you,” he says. “For stepping in and catching.”

“I told you I wouldn’t pass it up,” says Aomine. “I meant it. I always like catching your pitches. I like sharing that with you.”

And hearing it like that—oh. Midorima’s cheeks are on fire, hotter than a fastball thrown with as much force as he can muster. Aomine smiles, bringing his free hand up to cup Midorima’s chin for a second, fingers brushing his jaw. ~~~~

Midorima leans into him, resting his head on Aomine’s shoulder comfortably. The fabric of his jersey is well-worn and soft against Midorima’s cheek. Aomine’s hand slides up, beneath Midorima’s undershirt, to brush at the small of his back.

“You were hitting all the corners; I barely had to frame anything. Catching you is so easy, Baby.”

Midorima’s not sure if this is supposed to be dirty talk or general praise, but maybe it’s both (and with Aomine, the borders always bleed over like a messily-drawn foul line, but unlike that Midorima never really minds when they do).

“Your triple,” says Midorima. “Without that we don’t win.”

“That was pretty good,” Aomine says. “But it wouldn’t have meant anything if you hadn’t pitched the way you did.”

“It could have done without the headfirst slide, though,” says Midorima.

“I go hard,” says Aomine.

He can go hard with a regular slide, but that’s an argument Midorima’s never going to win, and somehow Aomine always ends up okay (and usually safe at whichever base). Aomine’s thumb rubs against the small of Midorima’s back in tiny circles, and Midorima closes his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” says Aomine. “Get you off first. And then again later.”

His hand moves back down, and he brushes his fingers over the skin of Midorima’s back, right above his belt.

“What do you have, ten more minutes? We could make it happen.”

The promise of that makes Midorima’s cock twitch (and his eyes open). “And then I’d walk out with come all over me?”

“Goddamn it,” says Aomine, his voice hitting its lower registers. “You know I wouldn’t mind.”

“Go take a shower,” says Midorima (he doesn’t know how much more of this he can really take, adrenaline rising again like static, making him want to move, flip over and hold himself up on his right arm, grind against Aomine).

“I’ll wait for you,” says Aomine.

It’s a long fucking wait for both of them, touching and pulling back and glancing at the clock again and maybe it’s not such a bad idea to let Aomine have his way, get them both off and just wait it out in the room until everyone else is gone. It’s a stupid thought, too much of a gamble, but he has to reconsider when Aomine’s rough fingertips dip below his belt again, scraping against his skin, simultaneously bringing relief and agitation when Aomine kisses him again, slow and loose and sloppy like they’ve got forever.

They do have to stop when time’s up, Midorima regretfully placing a hand on Aomine’s chest. Aomine lets himself slide off the table and holds out his hands. Midorima extends his arm and lets Aomine take care of it. His touches are startlingly warm after the ice, and Midorima has to bite back any sort of sound.

“Okay?” says Aomine.

Midorima nods. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” says Aomine. He’s done with the ice, his hand clasping Midorima’s, the fabric of the glove on Midorima’s left hand suddenly too thick.

“Shower?”

“Shower,” says Midorima.

He follows Aomine out; the locker room’s almost empty by now. A few of the first-years, last in line for showers, are still getting changed and drying their hair. Aomine nods to a couple of them, giving words of encouragement about how they’d done in-game or in practice, and Midorima smiles. Captaincy fits Aomine like an old shirt, soft and loose and comfortable just the way he likes it.

“Good game today, Senpai!”

Midorima turns; Yamaguchi smiles up at him, cap on backwards in obvious imitation of Aomine’s favorite habit.

“Thanks,” Midorima says.

“Isn’t he great, Yamaguchi?” says Aomine, slinging his arm around Midorima’s shoulders.

Midorima can feel his cheeks heating up. (Is this much really necessary?)

“Go shower,” Midorima says, shoving Aomine toward the doorway.

“Fine,” Aomine says, dragging out the syllable like his back foot on the mound.

Aomine’s already unbuttoning his jersey before they get to the showers, using it to wipe off the sweat from his torso (and somehow managing not to smudge dirt on himself). Midorima strips himself more methodically, peeling the undershirt away from his skin (it’s a little less clammy than before) and over his head, pulling the belt out of his pants before he takes them off. He can feel Aomine looking at him, probably leaning against the shower door and grinning. Midorima considers turning around so that his front is toward Aomine, to make him work a little bit harder if he wants to ogle Midorima’s ass, but he’s not particularly in that kind of a teasing mood.

When Midorima looks up, his mouth goes dry; his mind doesn’t quite capture the sight of Aomine, one hand on the wall, the other rubbing one leg just below the knee where the elastic at the top of his sock has left its mark (and those things never stay on Aomine’s skin for long but forever on Midorima’s, something of which he’s always been envious). His face is softer than Midorima’s knee-jerk expectation, and Midorima chides himself for giving Aomine a little bit less credit than he should. He takes in all of Aomine, the sweat and dirt streaked on his skin, contours of the muscle mass he’s put on—not quite at his peak yet, but always nice to look at. It’s not like Aomine’s not looking back (and he’s definitely starting to get hard, from that and probably from earlier, though Midorima can’t say he’s not, either) with equal shamelessness and unsubtlety, gaze raking down Midorima’s thighs, not in a way that makes him uncomfortable but in a way that just makes him want it to be Aomine’s hands instead. They’ve had to wait long enough.

Midorima takes off his glasses, placing them on top of his bat bag; his vision of the world becomes fuzzy. That’s the only real drawback of doing it here, that he can’t see Aomine properly (but weighed against all of their other options, including getting back to the room and Aomine promptly falling asleep, it’s worth it right now). Aomine offers his hand his hand (he knows by now that Midorima’s unaided vision isn’t quite that shitty when the lighting is right, but Midorima appreciates it all the same and takes it). They step into the stall, a little cramped for two people their size but not as tight as certain other places. Midorima closes his eyes as Aomine turns on the water; it’s cold at first and he nearly yelps.

“You good? Need it a little warmer?” says Aomine.

“A bit, but I’ll wait,” says Midorima.

Aomine hums and lathers his hands, scrubbing the dirt from his body in the cold; the water heats up, warm and soothing against Midorima’s grimy skin. He fumbles around with his hand on the wall for the soap dispenser; Aomine catches it in his, threading his fingers through Midorima’s.

“Let me wash you?” he says.

Midorima nods (right about now is when he’d like to see Aomine’s face clearly; he ducks down and it comes into closer focus, but not good enough).

“I’ll make it up to you later,” Aomine says, dropping Midorima’s hand to lather his up again. “I promise. We can do it in bed, however you want.”

Midorima sighs; that does sound good, although is it really making up for this if it would have happened anyway? (Does this even need to be made up for at all?)

“I do want this now, regardless” Midorima says. “Please don’t think I don’t.”

“I know,” says Aomine, but there’s a little bit of relief in his voice.

Midorima’s never going to get over the feeling of Aomine’s hands, callouses on top of callouses from years of swinging wooden bats without gloves and gripping the seams on baseballs. Aomine rubs circles on his chest, shoulders, arms, scrubbing away the dirt and reapplying more soap. Midorima makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh; Aomine leans up for a kiss.

“How’s that?”

“Good. Keep going—please.”

“God,” Aomine says, voice a little bit ragged. “You’re so good, so hot. Can you turn for me?”

Midorima obliges; Aomine groans when he does, and then his hands are gliding up and down Midorima’s back, massaging soap into the tension he’s still holding, easing it out.

“So good for me, Baby, so good, yeah.”

The words hardly mean anything but they do something to Midorima, hitting him in the core and going right to his groin. Aomine lathers his hands up and then drops them down to Midorima’s ass, to which all of this was probably a leadup. He slides his hands up, down, around, between; he brushes his thumb against Midorima’s asshole and, fuck. Midorima’s breath is shaking; his eyes are screwed shut; he jerks his hips back to meat Aomine’s touch.

“I want to finger you so bad,” Aomine says. “But I want you to see it.”

Midorima groans. He wants that, too; the idea that it’s so close, Aomine’s fingers inside him, stretching him out—he can feel himself inching closer to the edge already. He whines when Aomine’s hands return to the outside of his ass, to his lower back again, then down the insides of his thighs.

“Please,” Midorima says, again. “Daiki.”

“Let’s just get you clean first,” he says, voice nearly breaking (at least he’s feeling this as much as Midorima).

Midorima could bring up how he’s going to get dirty all over again, but this feels too good, all of it, and he can wait a little longer. Aomine, apparently, can’t—he’s almost cursory over Midorima’s feet (he’s going to have to go over those later himself) and when Midorima turns around it’s less than half a second before Aomine’s hand is wrapped around both of their cocks. The sensation is sudden, almost overload; Midorima loses his breath and can barely find it again. His hips are jerking involuntarily; Aomine doesn’t even need to say anything but he does.

“You did so well today, Baby; you pitched a great game…so strong to the last out, such good pitches—”

Aomine breaks off and gasps; he’s still jerking his hand, tight but sloppy, and his hips and the friction of skin-on-skin-on-skin is almost too much, rushing Midorima closer and closer.

“So good, wish you could see your face like this, Shintarou,” Aomine says, and it’s only a few more seconds until he comes.

Midorima’s still breathing hard, still far enough from the edge that he whines involuntarily and bucks his hips a few times at Aomine’s slackened grip, dissatisfied by the feeling. He reaches out his own hand to finish himself, but Aomine’s aware enough to catch it again.

“Let me. Your arm.”

Midorima could argue that jerking himself off from this close is not going to fuck up his arm, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity (not that Aomine gives him much of a chance). He’s already gripping Midorima’s cock, pumping to meet Midorima’s his motions exactly, brushing the side of his thumb (right where that one callous is) over the head once, twice, faster, and Midorima can feel it building and he comes with a noise that vibrates in the back of his throat.

Aomine brushes the soap slower over his stomach this time, pausing to murmur things Midorima can barely hear over the rush of the water until he places one hand on Midorima’s shoulder and leans up to kiss him again.

“You’re wonderful.”

If he didn’t know Aomine as well as he does, Midorima would say he’s laying it on thick for no reason—when he hadn’t known Aomine as well, hearing stuff like this was enough to raise his defenses, enough to suspect that Aomine was just doing it because he wanted something specific and Midorima couldn’t figure out what it was. He’s still, sometimes, a little uncertain (the only time he’d asked, stumbling over the question, Aomine’s answer had been that he wants Midorima to feel good, and while Midorima believes that much it also feels like not quite the whole answer), but while he doesn’t need the ego trip it’s always nice to hear.

Midorima’s fairly certain he’s already clean but Aomine’s still washing him, running his rough fingers all over Midorima’s torso. Midorima sighs.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” says Midorima.

It’s heightening his drowsiness, whatever bit of leftover buzz he has washing away as the water gets cooler.

“We should get out,” says Midorima.

“Probably,” says Aomine, but he doesn’t make a move to turn off the water. Midorima leans down, letting Aomine close the gap between their mouths again, and twists the faucet.

The sky is flecked with bruise-colored clouds when they head back, the sun low behind the distant clusters of tall buildings on the horizon, but there’s still enough glare to make him pull his cap low over his glasses. Aomine clasps his hand a little tighter and yawns. There’s something about the way he looks like this, face half in shade and sleepy eyes, wet hair under his cap, lips a little bit swollen.

“Kiss me?” says Midorima.

“Of course,” says Aomine.

There’s a slight breeze in the air but his smile is warm, looking at it and when it’s pressed against Midorima’s mouth, even for just a few seconds. Aomine sinks back down into his slides, looking pleased with himself all over again. And, given today, he should be.

**Author's Note:**

> i made scorecards for this lmao (just per-play, lighter on the stat lines, a little inconsistent) [seihou](https://ibb.co/hNPYMQ), [touou](https://ibb.co/bYAOMQ)
> 
> there's so much i wanted to put in this i cut a lot but it still feels like a bit too much? (i really just wanted to write baseball...and aomine doing terrible dirty talk...in the same fic....) also im really not that comfortable with writing mido's pov in general tho i hope it didn't show too much ;;;


End file.
